


A Little Less Mystical

by Ranni



Category: Avengers, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark Friendship, Jarvis (Iron Man movies) is a Good Bro, M/M, Nick Fury Feels, POV Tony Stark, Past Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Past Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Pining, Protective Nick Fury, Protective Pepper Potts, Protective Tony Stark, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmates Gone Wrong, Tony Stark & Bruce Banner Friendship - Freeform, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Unapologetically schlocky fic, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-17 02:40:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14178756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranni/pseuds/Ranni
Summary: Tony had been so excited, and now that feels like the most pathetic part. It was a nervous excitement, laced through with a thrill of misplaced rebelliousness—Tony’s parents had forbade him to activate his soulmark, certain that he would be financially ruined. Obadiah Stane had discouraged it as well, stressing that staying romantically untethered gave Stark Industries bargaining power with those hoping for a self-determined match with Tony. No one saw this coming. Not in a million years.OrTony Stark meets his soulmate, and it's a bit of a shock for them both.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ....And now for something completely different!!

******

Fury takes Stark to the spare bedroom that everyone is legally required to keep available for their other half. Fury must have been waiting a long time, because the room is full of exercise equipment and cardboard boxes, which he moves to reveal a full sized bed underneath, made up simply with some pillows and a yellow and gray quilt.

“Gee, thanks for letting me stay in your junk room.” Hardly the romantic, heartfelt words Tony had always imagined himself saying to his soulmate, but...there it is. 

Fury scowls. "It's my pleasure," he grits out.

“Is this pretty blankie from the post-prison Martha Stewart collection?”

 “My mother bought that for me. You know. Just in case.” Fury glares at the bed as if it offends him as much as the man he’s offering it to.

Tony blinks in surprise. Mother. Nick Fury’s mother. That was something he had never considered before—that Fury has a mother. A probably-human one that birthed him and made him birthday cakes and washed his fragrant teenaged-Fury socks. Who worried when he joined the Army and bought him a quilt for his future soulmate’s bed.

“Ah. The pre-prison Martha collection, then,” Tony says sagely, not sure why he does. He’s always had the compulsive need to fill any silence, but moreso now than ever. His skin is crawling and he feels hot and painfully loose limbed, like the time he boxed a few rounds with Happy and then let himself get talked into a run with Steve right after.

“Yeah, whatever.” Fury clears his throat. "The bathroom is across the hall. Feel free to put your stuff wherever. Do you think-"

“I don’t love you,” Tony interrupts suddenly, forcing himself not to shrink under Fury’s accusatory glare. “I mean, I don't  _hate_ you or anything," he hastens to say, "but I did think…that when I found my soulmate I’d _feel_ something. Like love.”

 _Or happiness_ , he doesn’t add. Or excitement at the very least, the coming together of two halves, bells ringing, angels giggling, and all that happy crappy. _That’s_ what he expected.

“You read a lot of romance novels or something? Cosmo articles? It isn’t supposed to _be_ anything. It just _is_.” Fury is obviously attempting a neutral tone of voice and failing, sounding more than a little angry instead. Then again, he _always_ sounds like that, in Tony’s experience—hell, the man probably sounds mad when he orders a ham sandwich or asks his secretary about her weekend.

“Well.” Fury—Nick, Tony supposes he should call him Nick now—says finally, breaking the unpleasant silence. “I better go grab a few groceries if I’m going to have a guest. You can come if you want, but…”

The whole reason they’re here instead of camping out at the Tower is to avoid the press, who will be descending rabidly as soon their soulmark is registered—which should be any moment, unless Pepper has decided to be anything less than perfectly reliable and responsible. Nick’s place is undoubtedly buried in aliases and overlapping paper trails, cloaked in perfect anonymity. Tony couldn’t be further off the media’s radar.

Tony shrugs dismissively and Nick clears his throat again. “Make yourself at home, I guess. Feel free to look around.” He looks incredibly displeased and uncomfortable at that prospect, which is understandable. The man has lived alone for who knows how many years, hadn’t even had time to clean up a little before meeting the supposed love of his life. “I won’t be gone long.”

Tony stares at him for a minute before throwing an offhand “Yeah, whatever.” He remains motionless, his hand still on the strap of his overnight bag, dark and awkward against the pale colors of the bed, until he hears the front door to the apartment bang shut. His body sags in relief, his muscles and bones all rubber, the shakes that have wanted to manifest for hours now finally overtaking him.

Tony Stark is well and truly fucked, in so many ways.

 

*******

It was supposed to be Pepper.

He did it for her, so they could have a chance together. After meeting Pepper Tony was finished having dalliances and dirty flings with other unmarked people. He loved her and he was pretty sure she felt strongly for him also, though she’d steadfastly refused to allow anything more than chaste handholding. She’d been waiting patiently since taking on the mark in her college days, and even if the law would allow it Pepper would never risk the relationship with her potentiall soulmate. So when Steve had suggested that the Avengers—none of them, for various reasons of their own, were soulmarked—do this thing together, as a group, it seemed like the right time for Tony to try it. To see if fate agreed with his heart, agreed that he and Pepper belonged together.

They gathered together in one of the lower level conference rooms. Thor was off world but sent his regards in some convoluted way involving magic and Jane Foster's text messages. Pepper was there, nominally to be a support to Tony but more due to their mutual hopes. Her face was carefully schooled, only her tapping fingers betraying her nervousness. Nick Fury showed up at the last minute, citing national security concerns, but really just wanting to keep an eye on his pet team of superheroes, some of whom might suddenly fall off grid in pursuit of the other halves.

Tony had been so excited, and now that feels like the most pathetic part. It was a nervous excitement, laced through with a thrill of misplaced rebelliousness—Tony’s parents had forbade him to activate his soulmark, certain that he would be financially ruined. Obadiah Stane had discouraged it as well, stressing that staying romantically untethered gave Stark Industries bargaining power with those hoping for a self-determined match with Tony.

He knew there was a good chance nothing would happen; many people had to wait a long time for their soulmate to activate their own mark—if they ever did. Sometimes people were left waiting forever. Sometimes a soulmate was already dead, the other half of the pairing left alone, never knowing for sure. But most of the time it worked—eventually—and the soulmates lived happily ever after. That was the draw. That was the dream.

Whoever his soulmate would be, Tony hoped they would be strong. Pepper or one of the Avengers would be ideal, because they already knew him, won’t expect him to be anything but himself. A stranger wouldn’t know. A stranger would be excited and hopeful and completely unprepared for the emotional tsunami of being paired with Tony Stark, would be in constant danger of cutting themselves on all his sharp edges.

And that’s why Tony stared at his arm and tried to do it just like all the books said, like all the bonded people had breathlessly recounted—it was all in the intention, apparently. Intention and determination. _I want my soulmate_ , he thought, feeling only slightly foolish. He stared harder, in case that mattered. _Soulmate soulmate soulmate soulmate._

There was nothing, and he starting to suspect he was doing it wrong somehow when Steve’s chair screeched loudly across the floor. The captain rose suddenly, meeting Natasha in the middle of the room, already lost in one another’s eyes. Tony's mouth dropped open in surprise and now he  _glared_ at his arm, willing for something to happen for him, too.

But there was still nothing as Clint gasped a choked “Oh, _shit_!” and ran for the door without so much as a backward glance. Clint had steeled himself for disappointment; he had been so sure that Phil Coulson was his soulmate, and Coulson was years dead. Tony grinned, happy for him, happy that there was someone for Clint Barton after all.

 _Still_ nothing. Tony frowned, wondering if the universe or fate or God or whatever force that decided this damned thing could somehow sense his slight unease and hesitation, had judged him unworthy of a soulmate. Then a place on his forearm started tickling, the sensation turning rapidly into a gnawing itch, then a burn. He barely registered Bruce leaving also, grinning and muttering apologies, Pepper laughing and shooing him out, insisting “Just _go!_ Go find them, Bruce!”

Tony looked up frantically then, wanting to catch her eyes before it happened, because it was going to be Pepper. It _had_ to be; he’d never felt for anyone what he felt for her and—

It wasn’t Pepper. She knew it, too, her smile sad but already resigned. The realization was a knifeslash of hurt and regret across his chest, but something underneath it, something even stronger, pushed the disappointment aside. Tony felt his eyes drag away from Pepper and move up, and up and _up_ until he looked at the figure that moved to stand in front of him while he was so absorbed in dashed hopes.

It was Nick Fury.

No.

Nick _Fury_.

Tony’s brain shorted out in a loop of _No_ and _why_ and _fuck no_. It had to be a mistake. A joke. A bad dream.

But it wasn’t. Fury’s face looked as stricken as his.

 

*******

There’s a closed door across the narrow hall that Tony suspects is Nick’s bedroom, and he’d throw it open in a heartbeat if he weren’t sure a puff of poison gas or some other homemade booby trap surely lay in wait. He locates the single bathroom instead, a space so tiny that Tony can touch two walls just by raising his arms shoulder height. Unlike the bedroom, the medicine cabinet is too tempting to ignore, but disappointingly holds only shaving supplies and a lone toothbrush. Tony scoffs in disgust—instead of rolling up the toothpaste properly from the bottom of the tube Nick apparently squeezes from the middle like a goddamned monster.

There are a few pictures on the living room wall and Tony is both baffled and astonished by a teenaged, grinning Nick standing alongside two sisters and their parents. Nick and one sister favor their father to a shocking degree, and all the siblings have their mother’s smile. There’s a second picture, everyone years older, another man added to the group—a sister’s husband, perhaps. The last picture is fairly recent, Nick looking more like the man Tony knows now. Mama Fury is nowhere to be seen. Dead maybe.

Tony scratches his neck uncomfortably. Great. Just _great_. Not only had Tony made fun of the quilt Nick’s mom picked out, but he’d made fun of the quilt Nick’s _dead_ mom had picked out.

There are more pictures on a side table, several from Nick’s army days, posing with friends and various guns, but Tony’s eye is drawn immediately to a framed snapshot containing some rather familiar smiles. It’s Nick, Phil Coulson, a woman Tony doesn’t recognize, and two people he does—Clint and Natasha. They’re all seated around a table heaped with food and wine glasses, all of them grinning like fools. Coulson has his arm draped across Clint’s shoulders.

Clint had been so sure Phil was his soulmate, as sure as Tony had been about Pepper. He wonders if it hurts Clint now, knowing he’d been wrong, or if the thrill of finding the person _actually_ intended for him lessens the heartache. If he's already getting over the fact that Phil apparently wasn’t the one.

Tony abandons exploring and sinks onto the couch, a worn thing with one side mashed down visibly lower than the other. _That’s where Nick usually sits_ , he thinks, settling on the higher unused side. He pulls out his phone and sends out the prearranged signal they’ve all agreed to respond to, so they would all know the others were well and safe. Not as invasive as actively tracking each other, not as intrusive as a phone call when they’re supposed to be busy bonding.

The phone chimes softly as he sends a call into the ether.

A _Ping!_ sounds immediately, followed by another _Ping! Ping!_ in rapid succession. Clint. Steve. Natasha. All three of them perfect soldiers, responding instantly. A few moments go by before Bruce’s answering _Ping!_ , and Tony grins to himself, imagining the scientist bumbling around to find his phone, squinting at the screen, trying to remember how to send the signal back.

Bruce is far away—the last Tony had heard the scientist was on a plane and crossing the Pacific ocean.

There’s a theory that soulmates are unconsciously drawn geographically to one another over time, marked or not, and that’s why they often end up in the same city, sometimes even working in the same building, like Steve and Natasha. And Nick and himself, though Tony’s mind skitters uncomfortably away from that thought. Those soulmates that aren’t close to one another when both marks were activated would be pulled together like two ends of the same cosmic rubber band, moving ceaselessly toward one another until they were united, two halves of one whole. By all accounts it is a beautiful thing, a mystical thing, a thing romanticized by art and poetry and every hopeful human heart.

But then, what happens after the soulmates meet is often a little less mystical.

 _Life_ happens after that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The awkwardness continues, and Tony catches up with two Avengers.

*******

Tony doesn’t sleep in the yellow and gray bed.

He doesn’t belong in that bed or in that room; they’re painful reminders of the way Nick had hoped his life would go, his soulmate nestled safely inside until they were both secure enough to share a space. Instead Nick was left waiting for God knows how long, and the person he hoped for never materialized. Time passed until he started piling things on top of the bed, things he actually used and needed more than the idea of a soulmate, the dream getting buried slowly under day-to-day reality.

And now suddenly here’s Tony, and even though Nick had made space dutifully—the law requires all soulmates to cohabitate in some form, at least at first—the room isn’t his. It can _never_ be his; there’s no place for him here any more than there is room for Nick in _his_ life, no matter how God or fate or nature or whatever disagrees. It’s wrong, it’s a mistake.

So Tony stays on the living room couch, because it’s more honest than pretending to be anything than the unwanted guest he actually is, and Nick the long suffering host that’s just too polite to ask him to leave. He lays awake blinking at the ceiling all night, falling asleep mere minutes before being awakened by slamming cabinet doors, the hiss of a coffee maker, and a scowling Nick Fury.

 “I’m headed out to the office. I don’t know when I’ll be back.” The Avengers had all cleared their schedules for the customary six weeks, but of course Nick wouldn’t have made such plans. He had no idea he was going to meet his soulmate yesterday.

 “Aren’t you supposed to take time off? To be emotionally available to me and shit?” Tony bats his eyelashes and laughs a little to show it’s a joke. He can’t actually think of anything worse than the two of them trapped in this tiny apartment all day, staring at one another and not even trying to fill the uncomfortable silence.

“I’m short my two best agents and an entire Avengers team; I can't be gone, too.” Nick purses his lips before grudgingly adding, “I’ll make sure to keep close to headquarters for awhile, though.”

“I'll be at the Tower during the day, then, and come back in the evenings.” 

Fury makes a noncommittal sound, shifting a travel mug of coffee from hand to hand as he shrugs into his coat. “Well. Lock the door when you leave.” He looks like he’s about to say something else, then shakes his head minutely and charges out.

 

*******

“Dum-E,” Tony says thickly, then clears his throat and tries again. “Hey, Dum-E.” He was up all night on the world’s most uncomfortable couch, and he’s _tired_ , not half drunk. And he’s _certainly_ not drunk in the workshop, which is stupidly dangerous, and _certainly_ not drinking during the day. No siree. “Did you know that Butterfingers is your soulmate? Because he is.”

The two bots turn to one another, Dum-E making a questioning sound before swinging back toward Tony.

“Yeah.” Tony gives him a wide eyed, earnest nod. “It’s _true_! Now, I may have arbitrarily decided that right this very moment, but it doesn’t make it any less _real_. I can paint a little doodad on your arm if it legitimizes anything. You’re soulmates, boys! Congratu-fucking-lations!”

He raises his glass in a halfhearted toast, swearing under his breath when he accidentally kicks over the trashcan near his feet. The workshop is usually his refuge but even it seems ruined right now, as if all the joy has been sucked out of everything. Dum-E moves toward him again, looking as concerned as a faceless, eyeless bot can look, and Tony wags his finger warningly. “Don’t you do it. Don’t you look at me when Butterfingers is _right fucking there_.” Butterfingers wisely pays no attention and focuses on picking up the mess under the table.

He’s the smart one.

Tony sighs loudly, resigning himself to a day of complete unproductivity, and pulls out his phone. He shouldn’t do it, knows he’s moving out of “solicitous” and edging straight into “obnoxious”, but also decides that he doesn’t care. He signals the Avengers again, wanting confirmation that they’re safe, wanting to imagine that wherever they are, they’re happy, too.

 _Ping! Ping! Ping!_ Steve and Natasha’s chimes are almost simultaneous, Clint’s lagging only a few seconds behind.

Bruce doesn’t signal back at all; he goes one better and calls.

“I’m in India. I’m not sure exactly _where_ in India. I could ask, but…” he trails off, leaving the _I don’t really care_ unspoken. What did geography and political borders matter when a wave of biology and mysticism was driving him toward his soulmate?

“What’s it like?” Tony’s words are careful, both from the whiskey and the heady relief from a familiar voice in his ear. This whole thing would be easier to tolerate if his friends were around right now. “What does the pull toward her—or him—feel like?”

“It’s hard to explain.” Bruce’s voice fuzzes out for a second. “Kind of like a really strong gut feeling, but it's pretty unprecise. I mean, I’m _sure_ I’m getting closer, but then again I _might_ also be on the wrong continent.” He laughs dismissively, sounding delighted and hopeful in a way Tony has never heard him. “How are _you_ doing?”

“I’m just great; things are going great.”

 

*******

He forces himself to return to Nick’s apartment, taking the stairs both to delay the inevitable and punish himself a little. By the fifteenth floor he regrets giving in to such a stupid, self-loathing idea and takes the elevator the rest of the way.

As it turns out, he needn’t have worried. Nick doesn’t return home until well into the night, Tony already fast asleep on the couch. They sleep in separate rooms and eye each other suspiciously over morning cups of coffee before Nick disappears to SHIELD and Tony to the Tower.

That’s the way things continue for the next five days.

 

*******

For complete lack of anything better to do, and a rather distressing desire for a little human interaction—in whatever form he can get it—Tony goes to a meeting.

Pepper raises her eyebrows in surprise but says nothing as he slides nonchalantly into a chair nearest the door. Soon enough he realizes his tactical error; Pete LaSaffre is running this meeting, and though the man is generally harmless he’s also a long-winded gasbag, spurred to even greater heights of obnoxiousness by trying to impress his suddenly present boss.

“What are you _doing_ here?” Pepper hisses the moment the last attendee has staggered, shell-shocked and three hours older, out of the bore-fest.

“What are you talking about? I’m running a business.” This has never been his favorite part of Stark Industries—he really just wants to be free to invent and play and build forever—but the fact that he despises meetings and press releases and paperwork doesn’t mean that he isn’t good at them.

“You can _not_ be here,” Pepper insists. “You have five more weeks of leave that you have to take.” She shakes her head at his good-natured scoff. “People get _sued_ over things like this, Tony.”

The hilarity of the thought of Nick Fury suing him for emotional abandonment almost makes it all worthwhile. “I don’t think we need to worry about that.”

“No, you’re going to do this the right way,” she says firmly, snapping her portfolio closed. “Even if you don’t care about the personal consequences, it will look bad for the company. People can forgive a lot—as you well know—but they’ll take a pretty dim view of you seeking out your soulmate and then rejecting him. No. I’m not allowing this. Absolutely _not._ ”

“I’m not rejecting him,” Tony points out. “I’ve spent every night at his place. This week he’s staying at an apartment here in the Tower. See how well we compromise and work together? Like two halves of the same turn-taking whole!”

Pepper purses her lips doubtfully, looking him up and down. Clothes rumpled from being dragged out of a suitcase, bags under his eyes from no sleep and too much solitude. Pepper has always seen too much when she looks at Tony, has always seen more of him than he's ever wanted anyone to see, and it's what he loves and hates about her in equal measure. “Tony,” she says softly, empathy and regret laced through the word, so much that it hurts. “I wish it could be different.”

He twines his fingers into hers, surprised when she allows it. “We never got our chance.” 

Pepper won’t show any disappointment, not for his sake, no matter what the hopes between them had been only two weeks before. They’d had nothing but promise and possibilities as long as Pepper’s soulmate didn’t show up, as long as it could have potentially been Tony. He’d ruined that by gambling on his soulmark. Now that possibility is gone.

“I wish I could help,” she says, not looking at him. “I would fix it all for you, if I could. But you have to figure this out on your own. You can still be happy, if you just try to make it work.”

“What about you?” he can’t help but ask.

 “I can be happy, too,” Pepper says firmly, gazing down at the mark on her arm. “I’ll just have to wait longer.”

 

*******

It's 3am and Tony isn't tired in the slightest, but he is suddenly tired of his workshop, hitting that odd wall where what he's doing is more frustrating than fun or even mildly interesting. He washes his hands with and dries them absently on his jeans, immediately getting them greasy again.

"JARVIS,” he whines. “JAAAAAARVIS.”

“Yes, Sir?” It never ceases to amaze Tony how the artificial intelligence can weave long suffering, silent sighs into such short sentences.

Once a night of insomnia would have meant going out and looking for some hell to raise, or for someone to help warm his bed, because no way and no how would a night of not sleeping and not working _ever_ include being on his own. Now it's different; four, sometimes five, other Avengers live here in the Tower, and all have a collection of issues that prevent a good night's sleep regularly enough that he never has to be alone if he doesn't want to be, and never has to look for company farther than a few floors below.

But they’re all gone now, scattered to the wind for this soulmate thing. Pepper is keeping a distance for obvious reasons, and he can’t call Rhodey either; he’ll be pissed if he finds out Tony’s hiding and working instead of putting in some quality bonding time with Nick.

“I’m—” _bored_ , Tony intends to say, and is surprised to hear “—lonely” come out instead.

There’s a longer than usual pause from JARVIS. “Director Fury is in his apartment—"

“Ewww. Hard pass.”

 “—and Agent Barton is awake, playing a video game in his living room."

" _What_?” Somehow Clint snuck back in the Tower without him noticing, has been here for who knows how long, probably lonely as well without Natasha around. Better still, as a fellow insomniac Clint will never demand to know why Tony isn’t in bed himself. “Why the hell didn’t you say so before? Tell Tweetie I'm on my way down, and I'm bringing pizza!"

 

*******

"So, it turns out we don't have any pizza. This is basically the same thing, right?"

Tony chucks a bag of frozen pizza rolls at Clint, who raises his knees in a heroic effort to protect his crotch, the bag nailing him on the thigh instead. His lip curls a bit—he's only wearing a t-shirt and boxer shorts, probably what he attempted to sleep in—but he never misses a beat with the controller he's mashing.

"You make 'em. I'm killing aliens."

"I guess  _someone_ doesn’t understand how a proper host behaves.”

Clint snorts. "And I guess _you_ don’t understand that a fictionalized, high definition world is counting on me to kill these aliens!"

"Fine, lazy ass. Prepare to quake in awe of my domesticity!" Tony empties the entire bag onto a pan, then sticks it in the oven. "JARVIS, make this...“ he gestures vaguely “...all happen somehow."

"Of course, sir."

“When’d you get back?” Tony asks, both of their eyes trained on the television screen.  _I'm so fucking happy to see you_ , he doesn't add. It feels too much like admitting a weakness, not that Clint would care, but Tony's been feeling unacceptably vulnerable far too frequently lately. “I didn’t even know you were here.”

“I’ve been around,” Clint answers vaguely, raising his controller unnecessarily as his game character jumps. “I thought you were staying with—oh, you alien _bastards_!”

For once the high distractibility Clint exhibits when not on the job works solidly in Tony’s favor. He gleefully points out more incoming aliens and generally revels in being in the presence of another warm blooded person, until JARVIS announces the food is ready. Clint pauses his game to dump the whole pan of pizza rolls onto one plate and sticks it in the middle of the coffee table, then the two friends get busy blistering their mouths and tongues on super-heated junk food.

"These are gross," Tony observes, not slowing down his eating in the slightest. "They don't taste like any pizza _I've_ ever had."

"Etshotoodiffitsgooofoyou," Clint answers indecipherably, then swallows, wincing at the burn. “You hear anything from Bruce?”

“He’s fording rivers, climbing mountains, and traversing deserts to find his other half. Have you been in touch with our star-spangled spider couple?”

“They’re somewhere tropical—I keep getting lots of pictures of Natasha’s feet with beaches and oceans in the background.” Clint digs his phone out from under a mess of magazines, holds up a picture of a tanned Black Widow and Captain America taking the perfect vacation couple-selfie. “She seems happy.”

It occurs to Tony for the first time that Clint’s soulmate might be here in this very apartment, snug in the prescribed second bedroom, or maybe even in Clint's own bedroom, sleeping the way any reasonable person would be at this hour. Tony hadn’t even considered that idea before barging in the way he always had, the way he always could before they’d gone and changed everything.

“Oh my God, Tweetie—is your… _person_ here?” he whispers, suddenly hyper-aware of his loud crowing over every Barton video game death.

Clint wipes his hands on a paper towel before tossing it onto the table. “Nope.”

“Isn’t she supposed to be?” Or Clint is supposed to be wherever she lives. Then again, maybe she works at night or puts in long hours, like Nick, who’s barely in his own home beyond sleeping and making coffee.

Clint shrugs with a wry half-smile, and for the hundredth time in this soulmate shitstorm Tony has a bad feeling, but for the first time it’s for somebody else.

“Is everything…uh…okay?”

“Everything’s great.” Clint’s half-smile fades into a non-smile.

“Well then let’s get some details!” Tony affects the airiest tone he can conjure to cover the uneasiness screaming inside of him. Something’s off, something’s wrong. Clint may not be the most open person in the world, but he’s more expressive than this clammed up, stone faced, Barton-shaped lump beside him. “What’s her name?”

“Angela."

“And??” Tony rolls his eyes and makes an exaggerated _come on_ gesture when Clint just blinks stubbornly. “And what does she do for a living?”

“She sells real estate.”

“Oh, she sounds badass.” Tony elbows him teasingly, but it’s like nudging a block of wood. “When do I get to meet her?”

“Never!” Clint does smile this time, but there’s something distressed underneath it. _Let it go_ , Tony reads there. S _top stop stop stop._

But he doesn’t. He can’t. “Can I see a picture, at least?”

“Don’t have one.”

And that right there, along with a palpable escalation of guarded tension sets off the final warning bell in Tony’s brain. He chews his lower lip for a moment, eyes still on Clint, who’s staring at the floor and determinedly working the nap of the carpet into some sort of design with his big toe.

“JARVIS, show me Angela.”

The words no sooner leave Tony’s mouth than Clint is turning back toward him with a furious “Don’t you—”, but it’s too late, as a woman’s image appears projected between them.

Tony barks a surprised laugh, because surely it’s not the right woman. JARVIS would have gotten her information off the national registry, but maybe it’s wrong, or maybe JARVIS himself has stumbled for the first time and is just showing the wrong picture—but one look at Barton’s stricken and angry face confirms that it’s _not_ wrong. This is her. This is Clint Barton’s soulmate.

“She’s—”

Tony’s mouth opens and closes almost comically, like a stunned fish, and for one glorious moment he thinks it isn’t going to happen, that his traitorous, careless, stupidly impulsive mouth isn’t going to run away from him. He doesn’t want it to, has _never_ wanted it to, from the first tactless statement he ever made to the one he’s inevitably going to make right now—but when when _when_ has anything ever gone the way he’s wanted it to?

Clint’s eyes are desperate and pleading and Tony would clasp his hand over his mouth to catch the words if it would do any good, but it’s already too late.

“—so _old_!” he continues, shocked.

Angela’s in her sixties, at the very least, but women these days take such good care of their appearance that she might be even older. Clint makes a strangled sound as his hand slices through the picture, as if it were something he could actually cut and not just an image. JARVIS, always somehow more emotionally intelligent than his creator, disappears it quickly.

“I bet she creamed her jeans when _you_ walked into her life,” Tony adds immediately, even as his face twists in apology for the horrible words that _oh my god he can’t stop saying_. His default reaction to surprise has always been verbal diarrhea of the worst sort. “Do the dentures get in the way of your makeout sessions? Is your back all torn up from cougar scratches or is it your—”

“Fuck. You.”

Clint’s face is red and his hands are shaking, but he still manages a ragged dignity as he marches out of his own apartment, jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth are audibly grinding as he slams the door behind him.

Tony looks at the video game, still paused and blinking patiently on the television, at the empty plate messy with pizza roll leavings.

“I’m sorry,” he says helplessly, too late.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fury has two unwelcome guests--Tony in his office, and a drunken Avenger in his apartment--and JARVIS is a good bro (on command, at least).

*******

Tont tries to avoid it and can’t. He sends out another call to the team. _Check in. Tell me you’re alive_.

 _Ping! Ping!_ Steve and Natasha.

Nothing from Clint, who’s probably still pissed. He hasn’t returned to the Tower, hasn’t shown up anywhere at SHIELD.

Bruce’s tone chimes eventually, along with a text message: _Missed connection; think soulmate was flying to where *I* was while I was flying to where *she* was. Haha!_

 _Like two helicarriers passing in the night_ , Tony answers immediately, trying not to be disappointed when a smiley face is the only answer he receives.

 

*******

Pepper won’t let him come back to work, and there are still four long weeks to wait.

“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?” he asks.

“You’re supposed to _try_ ,” she snaps before hanging up on him and blocking his phone number.

So Tony goes to Nick’s office, relishing the way his secretary stands up to yell and just as quickly snaps her mouth shut. He’s got rights here, and enough emotional and legal clout to get into that office whenever he wishes. Tony smirks at the secretary and reminds himself that he’s a responsible adult and will in no way abuse this newfound power.

Except for all the ways that he totally _will_.

“What the hell??” Nick demands. His desk is an impressively messy thing in the center of a huge but windowless room, stacks of papers in varying heights held down by empty coffee cups in a rainbow of colors.

“I’ve come calling,” Tony says, tipping an imaginary hat. “I thought I’d spend a little time with my significant—” He stops suddenly, turning a full circle. “What the—? There isn’t even a chair in here! Well, besides _yours_ , that is.” He frowns at the leather monstrosity the SHIELD Director is parked in. “So when you have a meeting the other person just _stands_ the whole time?”

“If I have a meeting I schedule a conference room. This is where I _work_. Not where I meet.” Nick still looks incredibly put out, but he hasn’t told Tony to leave. That must mean he doesn’t really mind…or that he’s summoned security by pushing a button hidden under the desk. It means _one_ of those things, surely. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I felt like talking.” For lack of anywhere to sit, Tony leans against the edge of the desk instead, feigning nonchalance, regretting he chose an angle that digs so uncomfortably in his thigh. He straightens back up instead, crosses his arms. Feels foolish. Uncrosses them.

They stare at each other for a few long moments. Luckily Tony's ability for his mouth to run completely independently of his brain saves the day.

“So…Cap and the Widow. Who would have seen _that_ coming, huh?” Tony grins conspiratorially and peers at the diplomas on Fury’s wall, wondering if they’d been faked. “One day they're perfectly platonic friends and the next—bonded sex fiends! Beach Bunny and the Star Spangled Speedo, honeymooning on a tropical island." Tony nods at the diplomas and moves to some pictures of Nick shaking hands with various American presidents. "Then there's our Hulkie, sniffing out the love of his life—isn’t _she_ gonna get a nasty surprise during their first lovers’ spat! And Barton—well, I really hope the guy has a Mommy kink.”

“What do you _want_?” Fury asks, more gently this time.

“I want a chair,” Tony snaps back, suddenly vehement, as surprised by the words as Nick, who glowers back. “In here. For me.”

“This is my office. There’s room for you at the apartment. You don’t need a chair here.”

They stare at each other again, until Tony throws up his hands in frustration. “Right. Sure.” He barely resists the impulse to knock one of the paper towers over as he passes by the desk on his way out the door.

 

*******

Nick still isn’t home, and Tony has reached the terminal end of the work he can do—or cares to do—on his tablet from the dubious comfort of the couch. Instead he spends the next couple of hours eating chips and watching amateur youtube videos of Avengers’ fights, complete with colorful filmmaker comments. WarMachinesgrrrrl98 is especially humorous, and there aren’t enough “thumbs up” clicks in the world to express Tony’s joy every time she refers to Steve as “Cappy McMurica”.

But after a while even watching the Hulk punching buildings set in time to “Gonna Make You Sweat” loses its luster, and Tony’s eyes travel to the side of the screen, full of related and suggested videos. Only out of a combination of morbid curiosity and a desire to go ahead and make this the worst night ever does Tony click on “10 Greatest Soulmate Reveals—Number 7 Will Make You Cry!!!”.

“Fuck you both,” he grits out at the teenagers dramatically activating their soulbonds at their high school graduation, everyone weeping and cheering.

Clip number three is of a pair of famous authors from the 1800’s who corresponded throughout the duration of their self-determined marriages, only to find they were soulbound to one another later in life. Historians speculate now that both had murdered their spouses and then faked their bond, but popular culture refuses to accept it; there’s countless sappy movies about their so-called eternal love.

“Oh Lord, not _this_ again.” Number five is the most overplayed footage of recent years, a man suffering from an extreme case of ego that had decided to _run_ to find his soulmate once both marks activated. He also just so happened to have a full camera crew and coordinated media coverage, but everyone manages to ignore that part. The man ran the length of one and a half states, and spent the last few hours running on bleeding feet, his shoes long since fallen apart, bawling his eyes out and stumbling. He and his husband and their newly adopted baby have been reality show darlings ever since. “Take a cab next time, you weepy moron.”

Clip number seven is of two soldiers that the Army grudgingly moved heaven and earth to get to one another, despite being in a literal war zone. Tony fast forwards through their story hastily, on the off chance that it actually _does_ make him cry.

And reveal number ten is a twist, or a trick, or however people want to see it—“It’s _your_ story!” the announcer trills cheerfully. “For all the people still waiting for their other half…keep your hopes up! The next great love story may be _yours_!”

 

*******

Nick comes home only long enough to go immediately to bed. Then he reappears suddenly at 2am, pulling on his shirt and grumbling, nearly startling Tony off his couch, still awake and morosely watching “Adventure Time”.

“What’s wrong?” Tony asks. “Is the world ending?” He hasn’t gotten any alerts from JARVIS but fishes his phone off of the coffee table anyway. There’s nothing. He thumbs over the screen again. Still nothing.

“It’s not anything _you_ need to worry about.” Nick glares sleepily. “Go back to your cartoons. Or better yet, go to your actual bed; it’s ass o’clock.”

“Where are you going?” Tony demands, but he's already gone.

 

*******

A couple of hours later Nick returns—and Tony is _still_ on the couch, thank you very much—in a thunderously bad mood, which isn’t a surprise, but dragging in an incredibly intoxicated Hawkeye alongside him, which _is_.

“Clint!” Tony jumps up, grabbing for him as Nick shoves the archer roughly in his direction. “Jesus, what happened to you?”

 “You should see the other guy!” Clint slurs triumphantly, smiling and blinking hard. He reeks of vodka and has obviously been in a fight, his left cheek swollen and a vibrant purple and dried blood spiking up the hair around his left ear. He frowns suddenly, thinking.  “Wait… _guys_. You should see the other _guys_. I beat them up,” he adds unnecessarily.

“Take care of him,” Nick snaps. “I have to be at the office in three hours and I want to _attempt_ to get some sleep before that. _”_ He storms off to his bedroom, muttering curses to himself.

“There’s probably a first aid kit around here somewhere.” Tony runs his fingers carefully over Barton’s face before stopping himself. He has no idea what a broken bone feels like, and can’t do anything about one anyway. “There’s a box of grenades in the coat closet; a first aid kit doesn’t seem out of the realm of possibility.”

“Don’t need first aid,” Clint protests, slumping hard against him, his voice muffled against Tony’s shoulder. The archer is wearing a collared, button-down shirt and khaki pants, an unflattering combination that Tony has never seen Clint attempt outside of reluctantly attended weddings and one very ill-fated church attempt with Steve. “They checked me over at the jail. I just wanna throw up and go to sleep.”

“Alright, but you’re sleeping in the spare bedroom. I’ve just started to break in that couch.”

 

*******

“What happened?” Tony asks finally. Clint had, in fact, thrown up copiously and dramatically, before sprawling out in the yellow and grey guest bed. His eyes are closed, face slack with almost-sleep and intoxication, grimacing occasionally in discomfort. “Who’d you get in a fight with?”

“Some guys. I dunno who.” He mumbles something else, unintelligible.

“Why?” 

“They were laughing at her. At us.”

Shit. The woman. Clint’s geriatric soulmate. Tony searches his memory briefly. “Angela?”

“Yeah.” Clint’s face contorts into something pained. “This whole…this whole thing has been such a clusterfuck. Being alone forever is better than this.”

“Not a good fit?” Tony asks uneasily, even though he already knows the answer. Theoretically, they’re supposed to be a _perfect_ fit—that’s the appeal of the whole institution, why people agree to it in the first place.

Though, like Barton, Tony and Nick are proof positive that this isn’t always the case.

“She’s so much older than me,” Clint says desperately, rolling over to bury his face in the pillow, hiding his expression. “More than thirty years older. She’s going to retire soon.”

“That must be really hard,” Tony says as sympathetically as he can muster, patting Clint awkwardly on the back.

“She said we look ridiculous together. That we don’t have anything in common, that we never _could_.”

Tony’s brain shorts out for a second and his hand hovers uncertainly in the air as he tries to reconcile what he’d thought with what he was hearing. “She’s—wait. _She’s_ rejecting _you_??”

“Angie’s been waiting for her soulmate since she was twenty-five years old. She finally decided that they’d died, or had just never activated their mark. Here she’s waited for more than forty years…and then in waltzes _me_ —young enough to be her son and an ex-carnie government-sanctioned contract killer to boot. She fucking _freaked_!”

“God, Clint, I’m so sorry.”

“I would try, you know? To make it work, I would try. But she says we look ridiculous, that it’s a mistake, it’s a joke. We’ve tried to hang out, to get to know each other, just, you know, to be _cordial_ if nothing else. And we go out and we’re trying and there’s these guys and they laughed. And she was embarrassed. So ashamed. Because of me. Because of _this_!” He thrusts his arm into Tony’s face suddenly. His soulmark is a long, deep red slash high on his wrist.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says again, helplessly.

“She’s right, it’s a joke. A cruel joke. And it’s funny, right? Just like those guys thought. They laughed because it’s just…so…fucking… _funny_.” He makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat that’s more like sobs than laughter, pulling the quilt up under his chin.

“I don’t think it’s funny,” Tony says quietly.

“ _I_ do,” Clint insists, screwing his eyes shut tightly. “I really really really do.”

“Look, maybe you should—"

 “Shhhhhhh.” Clint’s hand snakes out from the blanket to clumsily pinch Tony’s lips shut, but his usually perfect aim is off and he just manages to stick one of his fingers halfway up Tony’s nose. “Stop talking.”

“Things will be better tomorrow.” It’s all Tony can think to offer, the only thing he can hope for the both of them at this point. That tomorrow will somehow be magically different than today.

“You’re so lucky,” Clint slurs. “Fury. What a catch. And look at the two of you, already living here together. So lucky.”

He obviously hasn’t noticed that this isn’t just a spare bedroom they’re holed up in, hasn’t noticed Tony’s overnight bag and few possessions strewn around messily. _It’s not as great as you would think_ , he wants to say, but there’s no point; Clint is already asleep and wouldn’t want to hear it anyway. Tony and Nick’s differences are almost comical compared to a full out rejection.

 

*******

As usual, Nick is up by six and rattling around in the kitchen, so Tony sighs and drags himself out of bed. Out of _couch_ , rather—Clint still has occupancy of the bed. Nick’s head snaps up from his coffee.

“Sorry, was I loud?” He doesn’t look particularly sorry, and maybe that’s understandable—he’d been up most of the night, too. “Where’s Barton?”

Tony pours himself a cup, though there won’t be enough caffeine in the world to keep him awake once Nick leaves. “Sleeping it off. Did he tell you want happened?”

“A bit.” Nick’s voice is carefully guarded. “And the rest wasn’t hard to guess.” He drains his coffee and sighs. “Keep an eye on him; he can be an impulsive little bastard before he decides to pull himself together.”

Tony absolutely does not want to imagine what that could mean. “Keep an eye on him?” he echoes doubtfully. “Do I _look_ like the nurturing type? Like I could help anyone going through a crisis?”

“Then call Romanov and have her come take care of him.”

“She and Captain America are still on vacation, bonding sexually.” Tony waggles his eyebrows as suggestively as possible, but it somehow doesn’t sound as funny as it did in his head.

Nick grimaces. “Right.”

“This is a mess. Clint’s whole life has been ruined by this stupid—” Tony gestures with vague helplessness “—soulmate debacle.”

“I think it’s a little early to draw that kind of conclusion,” Nick observes wryly. “It’s only been a few weeks. Some people need to ease into things. Not everyone can fall into each other’s arms like Romanov and Rogers, now can they?”

“I guess not,” Tony says wistfully.

“Nope,” Nick agrees.

 

*******

A few hours later Tony is awakened again, this time by Clint staggering through the room toward the kitchen, one hand clamped over his eyes and the other groping blindly in front of him. Tony sighs and wraps a blanket around himself before following.

“Clint.”

“Ugh. Just don’t.”

Weepy, drunk Clint Barton has been replaced by grumpy, hungover Clint Barton, and it’s not much of an improvement. The archer moves through the kitchen with a suspicious familiarity, opening cabinets to find coffee supplies and a box of snack cakes without a single misstep. He even fishes out a bottle of Tylenol from a drawer full of odds and ends. Tony has lived here—well, in the evenings and alternating with Nick’s nights spent at the Tower, anyway—for two weeks and he still has no idea where anything is.

Tony waits till the archer has finished his second cup of coffee before trying again. “Where was _she_?” he asks, and Clint raises a questioning eyebrow. “Angela. You said the two of you went out, some guys gave you shit, then you got into a fight. Fury was the one that sprung you from jail, so where was _she_?”

“I don’t know. She left sometime before the police came.” Clint focuses on opening the cellophane on his chocolate cupcake as quietly as possible. His bruises look both dramatic and painful this morning.

 “Maybe she’s not _worth_ being sad over. You’re a good person; you don’t deserve this. Has it ever occurred to you that maybe Angela is just a shitty soulmate?”

Clint glares. “Don’t say that.”

“Are you in love with her?” Tony demands, and Clint’s scornful eyeroll is answer enough. “Do you _want_ to be?”

“The sheets on the bed were musty,” Clint says out of nowhere, then smirks at Tony’s confusion. “They’re musty as hell because they’ve been on that bed forever. Nick didn’t think to change them, and you haven’t been sleeping in that bed to even know they smell bad.”

He’d been drunk and upset and unobservant last night, but this morning he’s apparently right back to being his clear-eyed namesake. Tony isn’t keen to be on the receiving end of any soul crushing insights so early in the day any more than Clint wants to talk about his own disappointments.

“Fury is awesome,” Clint says with a frowning glare that would make his mentor proud. “He’s a badass. He’s also a shrewd, crafty motherfucker. Why aren’t _you_ in love with _him_?”

“Well,” Tony blusters, “I hardly know him.”

“And that’s your own damned fault,” Clint points out angrily, then sighs. He picks up his cupcake again with an unhappy smile. “Maybe that’s because it’s actually you and me, Tony. _W_ _e’re_ the shitty soulmates.”

Maybe they are. Tony is a billionaire genius and Clint is a secret agent and master archer—both of them should be seen as a catch, the jewel in someone’s crown. Instead both somehow seem to be the embodiment of another person's disappointment, a broken dream made flesh.

And maybe it won’t be just them. What will Bruce’s soulmate say, when they finally meet and he or she discovers their other half turns into a Hulk? What will Steve do when the honeymoon period wears off, when he wakes up one morning and remembers that Natasha has killed countless numbers of people? What will she think when she realizes that Steve might never be able to overlook that?

They don’t talk on the drive back to the Tower, and Tony blares the radio to cover any awkwardness. Other than a muted _thunk_ when Clint rests his head against the window he might as well be driving alone.

 

*******

“JARVIS, this is bad. JARVIS, this sucks donkey balls!” The sentiment is heartfelt, for sure, but JARVIS’ answering silence is rather pointed, obviously dreading—as much as an artificial intelligence can dread anything—what Tony might possibly request next. It hadn't even occurred to him, but now that it does Tony fights a smile in anticipation. And just like that, his morose brooding pops like a bubble.

“I need a pal right now, J,” Tony singsongs. “I need someone to be on my side. I need a...bro!” He gives in and laughs as JARVIS seems to sigh with his entire incorporeal being. Years ago a very drunk Tony had programed him to respond exclusively in bro-speak if specifically prompted, and it has brought the inventor no limit of joy ever since. “JARVIS, this _sucks_ ,” he says again meaningfully.

“It sure as shit does,” the AI intones in his usual clipped, British tones, still somehow managing to sound bland and offended at the same time.

“What are we gonna do about it? Everything’s a mess. How are we going to fix things?”

“I don’t know, but I got your back…bro,” JARVIS says stiffly, and Tony laughs, already feeling a hundred pounds lighter.

“Well,” he says finally, “I _am_ a genius. I can probably come up with a few ideas.”


	4. Chapter 4

 

Step number one is to reign in the Barton angst, or at least to push it onto someone more capable than he, so Tony texts Natasha directly. She’ll probably murder Tony for it when she gets back, but today it feels worth it.

 _C’s soulmate rejected him,_ he writes. _He’s devastated_.

“Devastated” might imply a lot more wailing and gnashing of the teeth than has actually occurred, but there has definitely been enough miserable brooding to be concerning.

Tony’s sure that’ll get a response from Natasha, and is surprised when nothing comes. Next he tries: _He’s holed up in his apartment and won’t come out,_ which is true, followed immediately by _He’s listening to woeful Sarah MacLachlan music and eating ice cream by the gallon,_ which is not.

Not that Tony is worried about Clint— _other_ people would definitely worry about his listless behavior, but not Tony, who sees no reason to worry because he’s going to actually _fix_ it. He’ll fix everything, but first he needs Natasha to do her part and actually respond.

He ups the ante with: _No one on the lower levels can work due to the distraction of his loud, sustained weeping,_ and later, cursing her continued silence, adds:   _JARVIS said Clint just ordered razor blades and Dermablend and looks very very very very upset._

He’s ready to write Natasha Romanov off as the world’s most terrible friend—or just a busy and preoccupied one, his traitorous mind tries to insist—and give up on the whole endeavor when his phone finally chimes.

_Okay. I’ll call him._

*******

Step number two involves sandwiches and chips and drinks balanced in the crook of his arm, condensation seeping unpleasantly through the sleeve of his jacket.

When Tony barges in the secretary rises quickly from her seat before recognizing him and aborting the movement, kind of hovering for a moment before dropping back down into her chair. He gives her a knowing smirk before rapping once on Nick’s door and throwing it open.

“You never come home for dinner. Do you even _eat_ dinner? Or human food? I brought—” He stops short.

There’s a chair in the office now, right in front of Nick’s desk, a hard plastic thing with no armrests, sitting uncomfortably low to the floor—it looks like it’s been dragged in from the world's most unforgiving interrogation room. That, or from the SHIELD cafeteria. But it’s something. It’s a chair. For him.

“Why does it feel like I’m being conditioned?” Tony demands, but he knows a peace offering when he sees one. It may be the world’s most reluctant and blatantly grudging olive branch, but Tony’s been on the giving end of enough similar gestures to accept it in the spirit intended. “What’s next—you gonna toss me a dog treat if I keep being good?”

“I’ll wait till you’ve stopped shitting on my rug,” Nick answers, but he’s fighting a wry twist to his lips that Tony suspects someday, in a million years, might grow into an actual, willing smile. “Figuratively speaking, of course.”

“Of course,” Tony agrees immediately. “Just ask Pepper; I’ve crapped on a lot of her metaphorical furniture as well.” He perches gingerly on the edge of the chair, and yes, it’s every bit as uncomfortable as he suspected it would be. “Dare I ask where the presents I sent over ended up?” He may or may not have arranged for a large number of leather armchairs to be delivered directly to Nick’s office that morning.

Nick opens a drawer and pulls out a card, flips it across the desk into Tony’s lap, landing neatly on top of his sandwich.

“SHIELD Reference and Archives kindly thanks you for your generous donation of twenty (20) reading chairs,” Tony reads, and hums thoughtfully before tucking the card into his jacket pocket. “I’m keeping this for my accountant; it'll give him a write-off boner.”

They spend the next ten minutes chewing in a fairly companionable silence. Nick eats his entire sandwich without picking anything off, which Tony counts as a ringing endorsement.

“Around the same time tomorrow?” he asks, and Nick raises an eyebrow.

“You trying to buy my friendship with _food_? Who’s conditioning who here?”

“I’ve won people over with a lot less.” Tony grins, and Nick’s mouth twitches up again.

 

*******

There’s a message from Bruce to the whole group—just a terse _All good, think I’m getting closer, take care_ , but it makes Tony happy, imagining he can hear Bruce’s excitement laced through the words. 

Maybe Bruce’s soulmate won’t meet him and decide _We can’t ever have anything in common._

And Bruce won’t declare _I don’t love you. I thought I’d feel…something._

Maybe they'll come together with a dramatic kiss and rush of excitement like in all the songs and books, like in every breathless magazine article, and Bruce will come home and tell them all about it.

 

*******

“Let’s see it, then.” Tony waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I already showed you mine.”

Nick fixes him with a very admirable glower before setting his sandwich—turkey and cheese again; he’d seemed to like it earlier in the week, and Tony’s adventurism does not extend to food—and rolls up his shirt sleeve carefully. His soulmark has faded with time and looks more like an old scar than anything.

“Why did you do it?” Tony asks, settling back into his chair. It’s a little more comfortable after the Nick’s most recent addition—a hemorrhoid pillow thrown unceremoniously at Tony’s head when he arrived with dinner. “It doesn’t seem like your kind of thing.”

Nick shrugs. “It was kind of a spur of the moment thing, when I joined the army. Lots of guys do it then—people like the idea, you know, of someone back home pining for them. Writing letters, waiting for phone calls. You roll the dice and maybe get lucky, things aren’t so lonely anymore.” Nick pulls his shirtsleeve back down, working the button fastidiously. “Of course, I set the damned thing in motion and nothing happened. It was disappointing, but also kind of a relief; I only had to worry about myself out there. Then I got into SHIELD and wished I’d never done it. I gave everything I had to this place and didn’t have anything left—not even for a soulmate. This is no kind of life to pull someone else into. I was _glad_ that the person never showed.”

Tony hums thoughtfully. He knows all too well how it feels to be so consumed, to the exclusion of everything else.

“Phil never activated his, you know,” Nick goes on. “Part of it was his thing with Barton, but it was moreso because Phil was practical to a fault. It wasn’t a good time, he’d always say. Maybe later. Maybe after this next big operation. Maybe when things settle down. Maybe tomorrow. But things never did settle down and he ended up with an alien spear through the heart he was afraid to give away.”

“No more tomorrows for him,” Tony observes carefully. “He was a good man.”

Nick looks away suddenly and shrugs uncomfortably, obviously not wanting to talk any more about it. The two had been best friends, and Tony kicks himself a little, even though Nick had been the one to bring him up.

“I guess _you_ were plenty surprised that day,” Tony says. It feels like a safer topic than Coulson, but dangerous all the same. Anything to do with relationships was inherently dangerous. “When it turned out to be me.” He shifts slightly in the chair, steeling himself for the response.

“Well I sure didn’t see it coming,” Nick admits, then smiles. “But I wasn’t disappointed.”

 

*******

“This is all the result of a very long and confusing chain of events,” Clint insists, but he’s too bright-eyed, too eerily calm, too self-satisfied at the blood pooling beneath him.

“Yeah. _Sure_.” Tony rolls his eyes and works Clint’s cramped fists open as carefully as he can. There’s way too much blood for him to deal with, the skin flayed too deeply this time for to implement teamwide caretaking routine Bruce had established—bandages and a disappointed rebuke. “Christ, Clint, these need stitches.”

“No, they don’t.”

“Yes, they fucking _do_!” Tony has a lot more empathy for what Rhodey and Pepper and even Happy had gone through all those years, the three of them taking turns nursing Tony through the worst of his own self destructive spirals. This is exhausting and terrifying, and Tony both wants to hug Clint close and punch him right in his sad, stupid face. “Why did you do this?” Of course it’s not a fair question when Tony understands the ‘why’ perfectly well.

“I had to practice.” Clint goes for a willfully obtuse practicality, but his eyes are fixed on his injured hands and Tony allows himself to hope that this was just a mistake and not an escalation of depressive behavior. That Clint hadn’t meant it to go quite this far.

“Yeah, but use the safety gear. The armguards. The little—“ Tony waggles his own fingers obnoxiously in the air “—fingertip protection thingies. Whatever _those_ things are called.”

“Finger tabs.” Clint lets Tony pull him to his feet, unsteady from blood loss and God-knows-how-many hours at the range.

“Well, _wear_ them!” Tony sighs and tugs on the corner of nearby workout towel, ignoring the clatter of a dozen water bottles falling over as result. He tosses it to Clint, who winds it around his bloodier hand. “Hasn’t Natasha called you yet?”

Clint pauses and gives him a narrow eyed look. “ _You_ told her,” he sighs with dawning realization. “I figured she just guessed through her creepy Tasha-omniscience.”

“Well, what did she say?”

 Tony has held out more than little hope that the Widow’s special brand of Barton TLC will be a magical cure-all that pulls him out of this endless funk. That dream is immediately dashed when Clint points out, “She knows even less about healthy relationships than _we_ do!”

Tony didn’t really have any plan beyond that, except for angrily confronting Angela, which even he knew was a bad idea. All he can do is focus on and fix the immediate problem: get Barton to his apartment. Get a doctor. Get a bot to clean up all the blood in the range. And then…well, Tony has no idea what happens after that. All he knows is that what’s happening _now_ has to stop, and soon.

“Listen, you need to talk to someone. A professional. Someone smarter about this stuff than me.”

Clint gives a surprised laugh that turns into a sick groan and pulls away from Tony’s grasp, leaning into a wall of lockers and cupboards, pressing his forehead into the cool metal. “You know, I think I’ll just stay here instead. If anyone wonders where I am, you can just tell ‘em that I’m right here, by Captain America’s locker.”

Tony sighs. “Clint. You’re not the first person to ever suffer a disappointment.” Some people run to find their soulmate only to discover a someone strung out on drugs or locked into prison. There are immigration issues, domestic violence. There’s all sorts of ways it can go bad, and as a result there are counselors and whole agencies that specialize in working out undesirable scenarios. “The two of you could figure something out. You could have a platonic friendship maybe. And if you can’t…” Tony lets the words hang, but Clint is certainly smart enough to fill them in himself. _You can go on alone. Try to move on with your life._

Clint falls silent at that and doesn’t protest as Tony drags him the rest of the way to his apartment. He sits passively and keeps his bloody hands dripping steadily into the sink while Tony and JARVIS coordinate a medical house call. He doesn’t bother trying to explain his wounds when the doctor finally shows up, scolding and numbing and suturing.

 

*******

Tony watches from the safety of the doorway and texts Nick, who’s predictably still at SHIELD.   _Problem w/Barton; you get a break from my nightly dinner invasion._

 _Alright_ , comes the answer, then a few moments later _Need some help?_

A hasty _No_ is his first reaction, because he’s Tony Goddamned Stark and has never needed help from anyone and never _wants_ to. What’s more, Clint is his friend and this is Avengers Family business; they’ve stood as an insular group against the world for years and no outsiders need ever come in and try to change that. These friendships were hard won, and aside from the team and Rhodey and Pepper every other relationship has ended with a painfully learned lesson. But Tony’s finger hovers over the “n” button and he forces himself to push the impulse away, because he and Nick are _trying_. Clumsily, with chairs and sandwiches and awkward gestures, but trying all the same.

 _I guess, if you want to_ , Tony types out.

Then he deletes that in favor of _I’d appreciate it_.

Because they’re trying.

 

*******

Clint grumbles at being manhandled over to the couch but stills immediately at Nick’s warning look. He accepts a blanket and glass of water with relative good grace, but unsurprisingly draws a line in the sand when presented with the prescription bottle the doctor left behind.

“No drugs.”

“They’re just painkillers,” Tony tries, but Nick bypasses all reasoning and cajoling and barks “Take the pills!” with such authority that even Tony’s hands twitch automatically toward the medication. As it turns out he ends up opening the bottle anyway, Clint’s fingers still too numb to work the childproof cap.

“I’m calling you _every_ time,” Tony marvels an hour later, his voice pitched low so as not to wake the archer asleep on the couch in between them. An alien movie that no one is watching plays quietly on the television. “Tweetie’s pants-pissing terror of your presence and disapproval is invaluable. Usually at this point we’d still be trying to get him to take the glass of water.”

“Scaring people is what I do,” Nick says inscrutably, then “He’ll be better once he can get back to work. Too much downtime is the downfall of any SHIELD agent.”

Nick pats Clint’s leg carefully and Tony frowns at the look of absentminded affection. He’s not jealous, per se…but maybe a tiny bit envious. It probably took Barton ten years of dedicated service to earn a solicitous gesture given only while he’s safely unconscious, which means that Tony would have to do something even grander to deserve one.

‘Flying a nuclear device through a wormhole and saving the city’ does comes to mind briefly.

“Is it a downfall even for you?” Tony asks, teasing, and settles back into the couch and pillows, not missing the way Nick’s eyes track the movement.

“Let me put it this way—last time I took a vacation I had my eye gouged out.”

 “That’s _gross_ ,” Tony declares with a theatrical shudder, then grins happily at Nick’s honest-to-God-teeth-and-all laugh. He reaches over a lightly snoring Hawkeye to nudge Nick’s leg. “But it’s okay; I once cut a gaping hole in my own chest and filled it with a form of fusion power.”

“That’s even _grosser_ ,” Nick observes, and laughs again.


	5. Chapter 5

 

*******

Tony has finally decided that continuing to ignore the yellow and grey bed in the spare bedroom has crept from ‘making a statement’ territory to ‘being sort of an asshole’ territory. That’s not acceptable now that he and Nick have gone from careful détente to an easier friendliness, so he decides to sleep in the bed that night. It will make Nick happy as well as have the delightful side benefit of being easier on Tony’s back than that lumpy godforsaken couch.

But first things first—Barton was right, the sheets are musty as hell.

The first obstacle is that Nick does not have a washer and dryer hidden away in any corner of his matchbox-sized apartment. Tony has a horrible vision of himself parked in a public laundromat for hours before JARVIS takes mercy on him and helpfully announces through Tony’s phone that Nick’s building has facilities in the basement. Tony lugs an armful of wadded linens almost all the way there before JARVIS reminds him— _not_ so helpfully this time; ‘helpful’ would have been ten floors ago, thank you very much—that he should have brought down some laundry detergent.

“They don’t provide _soap?”_ Tony demands incredulously, winded by the stairs, which had seemed like such a good alternative to the group of chatty women with purse dogs in the elevator.

“It would appear not,” JARVIS answers dryly, and this time Tony definitely does not mistake the smug tone in the AI’s voice. This must be payback for the extended period of bro-speak demanded a few weeks prior, and Tony feels a swell of paternal pride for his creation’s passive aggression.

He finally locates the laundry detergent—which had been on a shelf right above the hamper in Nick’s bathroom—and trudges back down to the basement only to run into another obstacle.

The washing machine expects _payment_ , apparently.

Tony grits his teeth and glares at his phone, silently daring JARVIS to make a comment that wisely never comes. Tony is a multi billionaire with money in banks all over the globe, but he doesn’t have _one_ quarter in his pocket, much less three, which frankly seems excessive for a basinful of agitated water…especially since the soap is not provided. He eyes the dryer machine balefully before stomping over, and—yep. Fifty cents per dry.

“We are living in the age of extortion and assholes!” Tony seethes, gathering the sheets up in his arms yet again.

This time the elevator includes a man dabbing at his dripping nose with his shirtsleeve and coughing his lungs out and Tony immediately veers back toward the stairwell.

At least his lower body is getting a good workout today.

 

*******

Nick’s expression when Tony emerges from the bedroom for morning coffee makes the whole thing worth it.

 

*******

“When are Steve and Natasha getting back?” Rhodey asks, reaching unapologetically for another egg roll. He’s had four already and Tony only barely curbs the impulse to slap his hand away.

“Next week maybe.” Tony notes the last of the crab rangoon; Rhodey catches his eye and raises his eyebrows in good-natured challenge before Pepper stabs it neatly with her fork.

“Oh, that’s nice.” She winks at their twinned horrorstruck expressions. “I bet you’ve missed them.”

“Hardly,” Tony grouses, “it was great to have a break from her repeated death threats and his nonstop inspiring speeches. There’s a limit to how many times I can be spurred toward personal greatness before it just gets kind of old, you know?”

In truth, he can’t wait for them all of them to come back; the Tower feels too empty with just he and Clint rattling around the top floors. There’s a lot of space and the Avengers haven’t exactly lived in one another’s pockets, but he can feel their absence all the same, missing the way they’ve filled in the empty parts of his life, smoothed away some of the rough edges. It’s also a relief to have Pepper and Rhodey talking to him now that they’ve decided he’s put in the proper quality time with Nick. Everything in his life feels as if it’s slowly being righted, and Tony feels settled in a way that’s strange in its uniqueness.

“Well, I’m sure Clint has missed Natasha anyway.” Pepper frowns. “I know he’s been having a hard time.”

And there it is, the last fly in the ointment, the one ripple in Tony’s lake of serenity—his utter failure to fix anything for his friend. Lately Clint hasn’t been around much at all; Sitwell suddenly can’t seem to do without his help with the newest SHIELD recruits.

“It takes time for some people to figure things out—at least that’s what Nick says.”

There’s a pregnant silence, Rhodey and Pepper exchanging a pointed look before Rhodey pops the last eggroll triumphantly in his mouth as Pepper snickers.  

“What??” Tony demands, looking back and forth between them until Pepper laughs and holds her hands up in mock surrender.

“Nick says,” Rhodey echoes, eyebrows raised and a wide smile creeping across his face. “ _Nick_ says. You hear that? _Nick_ says it takes time.” He elbows Pepper showily and stage whispers “ _Niiiiiiiiiick_.”

 “Well, it _does_ take time,” Tony insists with a grin, unable to resist their theatrics. “And it sometimes takes a few sandwiches, too.”

 

*******

 “How does it feel to fly like that?”

Nick is far from the first person to ask that question, but for the first time Tony wants to answer it right. He’s always had a big mouth but not a particularly poetic one—he can never express the fear and the thrill and the unbridled freedom that comes from the Iron Man suit.

“Like every foolish childhood wish you ever had was granted simultaneously,” he tries, encouraged by Nick’s contemplative nod. “Like the relief and release of finding out every bad thing you’ve ever done has been forgiven completely. It’s like being purely id—at least until you have to come back down again.”

“That sounds great.”

“I’ll make you one,” Tony promises, ignoring the fact that he’s promised an Iron Man suit to every friend he’s ever loved—he already owes Steve, Bruce, Natasha, Clint and Thor one each, though he’s reasonably sure they’ll never come knocking to collect. “How does it feel to be _you_?” he asks, because he wants to keep the conversation going. But then it happens _again_ , and his mouth—the one stupid part of him, that likes to wreck everything good in his life—can’t help but add, “How does it feel being the most manipulative bastard in any given room?”

His heart is instantly in his throat but Nick doesn’t seem bothered by the description at all. “It feels great. But I’ve never liked the word ‘manipulate’.” He taps a finger solemnly against the side of his nose. “I prefer to be called a _Direct_ or.”

“Oh ho _ho_!” Tony settles back into the couch in relief; things aren’t ruined. Not yet, at least. “So you just maneuver people into the positions you want, then let them think the whole thing was their own idea.” It sounds like the strategy that Steve is always attempting—and usually failing—to pull off.

“It’s the most efficient way to get results out of difficult people. Agents like Romanov and Barton need something to push against. For some people, contention is a way of life, even when it’s an idea they actually like. So I let them push, while also guiding them until they’re so far down a path that they have no choice but to keep going.”

“You sly motherfucker,” Tony says with open admiration.

Nick shrugs. “I’m just using my God-given gifts to make the world a better place, just like all of you do. I can’t fight like Romanov and Barton; I’m not strong like Rogers. Not a tenth as clever as you or Banner. What I can do is see the walls—both physical and metaphorical—that the devils hide behind. I can convince people cleverer than me to break it all to pieces.” He shrugs again. “And while they’re working I’m already looking for the next wall.”

“Oh my God.”

For the first time their soulmate pairing snaps into focus as something completely reasonable and inevitable, a thing with limitless potential. Tony can picture he and Nick finding those walls together, tearing them down and saving the world. What amazing and terrible things they would be capable of side by side and with the same goal.

 

*******

A message comes from Bruce, the last one for a long time, though none of them know that at the time.

_I found her. Very happy. Stay safe._

 

*******

It was inevitable, really.

The Avengers have been a solid team for years and the longest they’ve gone without being called out in some form another was a month, so to expect the world to take a break from superhero-level crises for over six weeks was a study in hopeful self delusion. But Bruce and Thor are gone and Natasha and Steve aren’t due for three more days, so Tony just laughs when a SHIELD quinjet lands on the Tower and Jasper Sitwell comes careening out.

“We need you,” he insists.

Tony shrugs and laughs again at the blustering descriptions of “flying assailants” “property damage” and how it would all “be a great service to the city of New York”.

“There’s only two of us here, _Shitwell,”_ Tony points out, still in high humor. “Why don’t you pretend it’s 2012 and you have to figure out this stuff on your own. I mean, do whatever you would’ve done before you had a stable of superhumans at the ready.”

“Well, any 2012 plan would have still included _me_.” Hawkeye is suddenly at Tony’s elbow. Sitwell’s expression melts into relief as he gives Tony a self-satisfied smirk.

Barton is already suited up, and he’s not wearing the black tac uniform with practical pockets and Kevlar lining that he usually favors, but the full Hawkeye sleeveless ensemble he reserves for group photo shoots and official functions. It’s as flashy as their usually inconspicuous archer ever gets, and all Tony sees in this look are danger signs, all he hears behind Clint’s confidence are warning bells. The archer’s eyes are too bright and lively, and deliberately avoiding Tony’s, who’s suddenly sure of what it all means.

Hawkeye is about to do something very dramatic and very stupid.

“No.” Tony’s voice comes out more sharply than he intends, because he has to tread carefully here, and that’s not in his skillset. He can build everything from a bomb to the smallest microprocessor with steady, confident fingers, but he is clumsy and blundering when it comes to emotions and tending human hearts. “The Avengers aren’t going.”

“ _I’m_ going,” Clint says with finality, and pushes past Tony to follow Sitwell.

 

*******

Tony goes also—how could he do otherwise? As soon as they land Clint bolts out of his seat and to the SHIELD agents milling around the mobile command. Tony tries to catch Sitwell, grabbing for his arm, and the other man all but bares his teeth before shaking Tony off.

“I want snipers here and here and _here_ ,” Nick is saying, huddled over a large map. He doesn’t so much as glance up at the Avengers, purely in mission mode, focused only on getting the job done with minimal casualties and damage. “Jamison says they’re weak around the top of the shoulder, so concentrate your hits there if possible. Iron Man, I want you to keep them herded in this general vicinity-” Nick traces out a large area with his finger “-and War Machine should be here shortly to assist.”

“I’ll set up here, Sir.” Clint taps at blue square that undoubtedly represents a very high and precarious building, and Tony is just opening his mouth to argue when Nick shakes his head curtly at them both.

“I want you leading ops at street level. Make sure the snipers are in position and that any enemies shot down don’t get up again. Sitwell, you coordinate over the comms.”

Sitwell looks aghast at the reappropriation of his authority, almost as horrified as Clint, who has never expressed the inclination to lead in any compacity.

“Sir,” Clint argues, “I don’t think I—”

“And take those probies with you,” Fury interrupts smoothly and turns back to the map, obviously considering the matter settled. Clint stares at him another long moment, as Fury ignores him easily, neither of them reacting as another explosion sounds from above.

“ _Fuck_!” Clint spits finally, breaking the spell and making everyone jump, turning to the probationary agents hovering around the edges of the group. “I hope you greenies can run fast, because _I_ sure as shit can, and I’m not going to be checking to see if you’re alive.”

Fury still doesn’t look up from the map, even when Tony takes to the sky.

 

*******

This whole thing is layers of wrong.

First of all the flying soldiers are just stupid, because they’re not androids or mutants or anything cool; they’re just men in battle gear and robotic wings, and men should not fly. Now, it’s amazing when Tony and Rhodey and even that Falcon guy fly around, but when anyone else tries it they just look ri-goddamned-diculous.

Even with War Machine’s help it’s almost impossible to keep the enemies contained enough for SHIELD to pick them off. It also isn’t helping that Tony is attempting to be everywhere at once while also keeping an eye on Hawkeye. Clint is suspiciously quiet on the comms, especially for someone that’s supposed to be coordinating the entire show. Tony tries to get close again and lets one of the fliers slip out of the two block grid, and he’s brought down only because of some quick work by Rhodey.

“What’s going on up there?” Sitwell snaps over the comms. “Stark, what the _hell_ are you doing?”

“I need a private channel with Director Fury,” Tony says finally, and there’s a long pause before the telltale _click_ , and he mentally braces himself for the angry _What do you want?_ or a frustrated _This is not the time._

A simple “Tony” comes instead, so warm and resonant that it almost hurts to hear.

He’s there. Nick is there. Tony might be in the sky while Nick is firmly landlocked but they’re together anyway, held together by a comm unit and whatever magical tether this soulbond is.

“Hawkeye shouldn’t be out here,” he says vehemently, hoping to make Nick hear and understand where Sitwell would not, hoping he’ll pull the archer out and make things right before it’s too late.

“He’s fine.” Nick sounds very sure.

“I’m worried he’s going to—" _Throw himself off a building, jump into traffic, leap into friendly fire, find a way to make Angela Schoene pay emotionally._

“Hawkeye is responsible for everyone out there,” Nick interrupts calmly, “and he also has to bring those baby agents home in one piece. He’ll take care of it; when it comes to protecting someone else he doesn’t know how to fail.”

And just that easily the crush of fear moves from his chest and Tony takes a whooping gasp of relief, because of course Nick had seen, of course Nick had known. Nick can see the walls, after all—even the ones people build around themselves.

“You really _are_ the most manipulative bastard in any room,” Tony marvels, wonder and laughter mixing in his voice along with a jelly-filled relief in every limb. “You know, I bet you’re the kind of guy that thinks he can—”

“I want a pair of those wings,” Nick interrupts. “The others are blowing everything to pieces; I can’t count on them for a pristine specimen. So I need you to get that tech, tear it apart, and tell me how it flies.”

Tony is glad for the helmet, glad no one else could see him grinning like a fool. Sitwell is still calling for him again, growing more and more irritated, and Tony growls good naturedly when an exploding arrow streaks through the sky in front of him, killing the nearest solider and shattering the wings.

“Are we making requests now? Is _that_ what we’re doing? Because _I_ want a better chair in your office,” he counters. “You can even be generous and get me one with armrests. Or with actual padding on the seat!”

“Fight smart and come back safe and you can have your own hook in the coat closet.” Nick won’t be smiling in front of everyone else, not Nick Goddamned Fucking Fury, but Tony can hear the ghost of humor in his voice, a promise beneath the words. “Now get to work.”

There’s no chance to answer back, because Sitwell screeches “Stark!!!” so loudly through the comms that his voice distorts.

Tony sees one of the fliers heading his way, a snarling man with angry eyes and beautiful silver wings. _That one_ , he thinks. _That’s the one for Nick._

“Yeah, Sitwell, I’m here.”

 

*******

They’re four Avengers short, but they win. Of _course_ they win—there’s always a heroic victory near the end of every fairy tale, just before the miracle.

Tony’s armor falls back as he steps out, wiping at the sweat dripping into his eyes. Clint stays with the SHIELD team, grinning and rolling his eyes conspiratorially at Tony on his way to the transport, the probationary agents shadowing him obediently.

“They’ll follow him forever,” Nick says, appearing out of nowhere, the firm, steady center in a sea of Tony’s euphoria. “And he’ll love and hate them in equal measure. That’s how it always starts. Good handlers are never born; they’re browbeaten into existence.” He shrugs and spreads his hands with exaggerated modesty. “Hey, it’s what I _do_.”

“You crafty bastard,” Tony says with open admiration, his voice a little shaky, still too hopped up on adrenaline to play it cool. “All _I_ can do is build shit and blow things out of the sky. You may also have heard about this wormhole thing…”

“Yeah, I think I did.” Nick stands in front of him and Tony motions awkwardly at the silver wings laying on the ground, at the feet of the Iron Man suit. Nick nods once in acknowledgement but doesn’t even glance at them, eyes only on his soulmate. He brushes at Tony’s clothes, rumpled and folded with sweat.

“I’m kind of a mess,” Tony admits, and there’s no layered subtext there, no siree, not one bit. “I’m…probably not ever going to _not_ be a mess. Does that make sense? Was that too many negatives in one sentence?” The words tumble out of his mouth as rapidly and uncontrollably as ever, a warning and plea woven together, because it’s important to get this right, but he’s too physically and emotionally exhausted to be as careful as he should. “People have tried to straighten me out—my parents, smart people, scary people, all around amazing people— _none_ of them could do it. You won’t be able to either.”

Nick shrugs dismissively and takes a step closer. Tony’s breathing is still a little loud, his heart beating fast. Nick’s breathing is slow and measured and he takes Tony’s hand.

“I might be a disappointment,” Tony goes on, then laughs anxiously. “No, scratch that. I _will_ be a disappointment. I’m definitely, certainly, _unquestionably_ going to disappoint you. It’s a given. It’s an absolute. In fact, I should get a thesaurus just so I can continue to describe all the ways I’ll—" Nick takes Tony’s other hand, and Tony shakes his head vehemently in one last desperate attempt. “I’m warning  you…I’m a shitty soulmate.”

“Well, then I should warn you about something, too.” Nick takes the last step forward. “I’m _extremely_ loud in bed.”

And for the first time in his whole life Tony’s mouth doesn’t run away with him. It doesn’t open up and say something hasty and cutting that makes everything fall apart, but neither does it gush something mushy and embarrassing to be mortified about later. It doesn’t even have the chance to compliment the most amazing comeback he’s ever had the honor of hearing.

In fact, Tony’s mouth doesn’t do any talking at all, since Nick’s is distracting it quite perfectly.


End file.
